


*Mares

by alexisriversong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, Gen, Nightmares, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:17:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10102481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexisriversong/pseuds/alexisriversong
Summary: It's not only at night that our nightmares come to visit us. They can manifest themselves in many forms and at any time. The point is, do we have them covered? How can we defend ourselves from our demons? The primal fears that grip our hearts? Those unanswered questions, those irrational fears that, despite our attempts, gallop toward us, as the mare Sea, to disturb the sleep of our consciousness?Translator summary: Seven chapters, seven different nightmares, five characters, one of them seems to have more nightmares than the others...





	1. Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Mares](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/270938) by Padmini. 



> * They are the demons who, according to mythology, visit people while sleeping, bringing them nightmares. From this, came the English word nightmare.
> 
> TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I hope there are no mistakes in my translation. I would really appreciate comments and kudos. If there is something that's not clear you can ask and maybe I'll try to correct it with something that makes more sense!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's first nightmare... He has many of them!

The room was full of smoke.

Sherlock, lying limply on the sofa, drew the last breath of yet another cigarette with thoughtful slowness. The smoke coming out of his mouth drew seductive spirals that man carefully contemplated, before turning to extinguish the cigarette in the now overflowing ashtray.

Two, maybe three packages. He did not remember. He had smoked them all, one behind the other. John was not there, so he could not reproach him for having abused his lungs like that. He wanted, however, to have him there. He wished his best friend would scold him for his childish behaviour. But he wasn’t there.

He had hoped to conceal the truth behind the thick blanket of smoke, but that bastard was always there. Painfully strong, so big that it couldn’t be ignored.

He took the now empty package from the table and stood a moment to weigh it. He turned it and began to shake it, as if his efforts could ever serve to magically bring up another cigarette. Useless. He would have to come to terms with it, sooner or later. He could not postpone it. He abruptly sat up and threw it away with a cry of anger. Anger. It was not like him. Yet it was the only thing he could feel in that moment. Anger at himself, anger at John.

He threw himself back on the couch and covered his eyes with his arm. He mentally retraced the events of the recent months, of the past few days. When did everything begin to go wrong?

 

_A week before_

 

Sherlock nervously drummed his fingers on his knees as the taxi proceeded at an extremely scandalous pace. Traffic was heavy and you could not expect him to go faster than that.

"Try to stay calm," he said John annoyed at the detective's behaviour "fussing will not take us more quickly to Scotland Yard"

"I know," he replied testily, "I can’t. I'm too curious and if this moron" he added, pointing at the driver with his chin "wasn’t too busy dreaming about his lover’s ass, we would have turned left at the intersection and now we wouldn’t be here, bottled in this absurd traffic"

John rubbed his temples, trying to remain calm while the aforementioned taxi driver mouthed a series of not really elegant epithets directed at Sherlock.

Finally, after an interminable half-hour, the two arrived at their destination. Sherlock was terribly agitated and the wait had not improved the situation. Violently he opened the door to Lestrade’s office, who was already waiting to give them the details of the last case.

"About time you got here, freak" Sally greeted him with a grin while Anderson was laughing in his sleeve "To be honest I was hoping you would not come at all"

"I would also like so many things" he replied with a sigh “For example I would like it if Anderson’s brain there was some functional neuron, but you cannot have everything in life"

The man took a hurt expression and opened his mouth to reply but was stopped in its tracks by Lestrade.

"Anderson, the techs have been waiting for you for more than half an hour. Please go. You, Donovan can stay, but do shut up. Sherlock" he then he said to the detective "So far we have preferred to keep this as a secret thing, but now it has become of such great proportions that it is no longer possible to hide "

"What are you talking about?" John asked, frowning.

"A serial killer" Greg replied sadly.

The Sherlock's eyes lit up with excitement and anger.

"You mean you kept a serial killer hidden from me for all this time?" He asked, looking threatening.

"Sherlock!" Chided John frowning "We're talking about a serial killer and you do the offended look?"

"If they had called me before, it would have been better! I would have stopped the guy before giving him the time to kill again! "

"It is not our fault," said Lestrade, "In any case we have been aware of the facts only for a couple of weeks"

"How is it that possible?" Asked John ironically "There is a serial killer who goes walking around London and you find out just now?"

"The fact is that its victims are all bums. We found a sort of mass grave. According to the analysis of the first deaths they date back to a few months ago. The most recent are from last week. There are twenty victims so far"

"Where are the bodies?" Sherlock asked, as if it did not touch him at all.

"We had to burn them," replied Lestrade "to prevent diseases. Many of the bodies were in a very advanced state of decomposition. We took all the samples of the case, however "

"The cause of death?"

"Gun. Always. To hear the analysis of ballistic shots must have been fired from very far away. Probably a very experienced sniper "

Sherlock joined his fingertips under his chin.

"An expert sniper, eh?" He asked as his mind already formulated the answer "John, I'm pretty sure that this is Moran. Mycroft had assured me he had him eliminated, but I wouldn’t trust him! He is definitely launching a challenge. He knows that I often use my homeless network ... John! are you listening? "

The doctor seemed in another world. He had his eyes on Sherlock, but he seemed not to see him. His whole body was stiff and his hand was beginning  to tremble slightly.

"John, what's the matter now?"

The man seemed to recover. He shook his head, as if to drive too sad thoughts away and frowned.

"I'm so sorry for you, you know, Mr. Sociopath. You have just heard that twenty people were killed and react as if you do not give a shit, nothing! "

"In fact it's so. I do not care. For me those bodies are just part of the mystery, a wedge that will help me find the killer. Nothing more"

"I should have known"

"Did you expect a different reaction?"

"Sherlock, perhaps among those dead there are also homeless people who have helped you! Youknew them, don’t you?”

The detective was about to reply, but was interrupted by the inspector.

"Sherlock, I’ve sent the relevant samples to the laboratory. You'll be able to work on them this evening. This, here," she said, handing him a thick dossier "is the detailed account of what we have found in the sewers. It shows, where we found it, the information on the corpses. Name, gender, time of death. On the time of death we could not be very precise, unfortunately "

"Doesn’t matter," he said taking the dossier "I'll be the one to fill in the blanks left by your incompetence"

He left under the withering gaze of Donovan while an embarrassed John tried to apologize on his behalf.

"You could have been a bit 'nicer'” the doctor said scolding him like a child.

"There is no time to be gentle, John. Fifty deaths in only a few months. This means that our man kills with impressive frequency. The question is: why? If it really is Moran challenging me, then he chose a very strange way to get my attention!"

"You really think it's him?" asked John.

"Not entirely. Once I read these papers I’ll have a clearer idea in mind "

That evening Sherlock was totally taken by the reading. The murders were really serial. The victims had been killed by the same bullet type and always with shots aimed at the jugular, with the precision that only a highly trained killer with very strong nerves could get.

He could not infer anything from the hours of deaths because they were not reported, but found that the regularity of the murders was really impressive. Once a week. He took the calendar and began to score the days of every murder with a cross. He was about to put on his coat and go to Barth's to see what he could learn from those miserable samples, when a deduction hit him looking at the calendar.

The murders, made weekly, were not perpetuated on a fixed day. He was speechless. He could not believe it. Yet it was so obvious! If he had not thought it impossible. He had to have more proof. In the end, it could only be a coincidence!

He did not go to sleep. He left running, carrying the calendar with him.

"I’m going to the lab, John," he said walking down the stairs "Do not wait up!"

In the taxi, he kept thinking about what he had just discovered. The thing had upset him greatly. It was just a guess though, he needed more data to confirm his hypothesis.

He entered the at that late hour deserted lab almost running. Waiting for him, correctly preserved, were the samples sent by Lestrade.

He remained in the laboratory, bent over the microscope, for the whole night. There was no way of learning nothing from those poor remains. He jumped up, with his back aching for the uncomfortable position held too long and began to curse and walking back and forth across the room.

He could not see what he needed from those samples. They were too decomposed. There wasn’t anything useful to use from those traces of soil. He knew where those desperate lived. He could not reconnect their death to the filth they had on them.

There was only one thing he could do. He took the calendar and went to the current week. The following day would be ideal to test his theory.

The following day he started with his plan. He had followed his prey along an intricate path, not really understanding what his goal was. The suspect was constantly changing direction, zigzagging, as if trying not to be followed. Was he getting suspicious? No, impossible. Sherlock had managed to conceal his anxiety throughout the day. John occasionally looked at him sideways, but said nothing.

Finally he found him. After checking – not really well enough – that no one was following him, the suspect had kicked open the door of an old dilapidated building. He had climbed the stairs quickly and stopped just on the roof. He had put down a big black bag, from which he had extracted a sniper rifle. Sherlock had followed him like a cat. He could not suspect of being stalked.

"I’ve seen you," said the man mounting the weapon " you can come out"

"I found you out" he said loudly, "You shall not go further than that"

The man's mouth curled into a wry smile.

"Are you really going to report me?" He asked as if he presumed to know the answer already.

Sherlock did not answer. In fact he had not thought of it. He had hoped, all the time, that he was wrong.

"How did you understand it was me?" he asked him.

"There were two things that alarmed me," Sherlock said, advancing slowly towards him "The first was your reaction when we were in Scotland Yard. You were too weird. It is not the first time that we're dealing with a serial killer, and you never react like that"

"Well, good. I'm afraid I just couldn’t help myself "

"Were you too proud of your work?" He asked, unable to contain the disgust in his voice.

"Yes, we can say that," he replied nonchalantly "The other clue?"

"All murders meet your night shifts" the detective replied sadly "At first I thought it was just a coincidence, but it was too obvious! It could not be a coincidence. I would have said so if it was one or two matches, but all of them! John! All deaths have occurred while you were away on business! To get to the surgery does not take more than half an hour. I couldn’t know that you left the flat early because I did not know your full schedule. So I called Sarah and she confirmed that the night shift always begins at midnight. Why did you left half an hour early? To kill! Oh I was so blind!"

Sherlock gritted his teeth in a grimace of pain. He really would never have expected to have to denounce his own best friend. His own flatmate up to that moment? A liar, a criminal, a murderer. He had always liked serial killers. Always unpredictable, always different. They could test his intelligence. In this case though, he made an exception. He could not bear the thought that his best friend, the only man on earth to whom he had ever tried to give his affection and confidence, could be a murderer. What was wrong with him? What mechanism was jammed? Was it his fault? Had he been so self-absorbed and focused on cases that he had not realized his change?

"What will you do now?" He asked resting his rifle, now mounted, on the shoulder "Will you seriously denounce me? Will you call Lestrade? "

"What could you do to stop me?"

"I could shoot you!" He said with an hysterical giggle.

"You will not," he said, without really believing his words.

"I wouldn’t bet on it" answered John pointing the weapon towards Sherlock.

The detective closed his eyes. To die was fine as well.  It would always be better than to live with the anguish. He heard a shot being fired, but he felt no pain. When he opened his eyes he saw John lying on the ground keeping his bleeding hand close to his chest. He turned around. Behind him there was Lestrade holding John at gunpoint.

"Thanks for calling me" said the inspector, lowering the weapon.

"Thanks for saving me," Sherlock said with a sigh.

"I cannot believe it," Greg said, shaking his head, "I cannot believe that John ..."

"Shut up!" Sherlock yelled "Shut up!"

He did not want to hear those words. Having witnessed firsthand the truth had been horrible. He did not need other verbal confirmations.

Meanwhile, two policemen were dragging John away, handcuffed and screaming.

"You think you're so clever, huh Sherlock? You'll see that one day someone smarter than you will come and destroy you! You'll see!!"

 

_Now_

He removed his arm from his face. The house was still filled with smoke. He did not want to get up but he forced himself to do so because his eyes had begun to tear up. He got up and went to open the window. The smoke began to come out slowly. He was about to pick up the violin when his attention was attracted by the door opening. Who could it be? Mrs. Hudson was visiting a cousin and John ... John was elsewhere. Locked up to serve his reprehensible crimes.

He took the riding crop and positioned himself behind the bathroom door to be able to attack the mysterious visitor. Noise indicated that the intruder was carrying two plastic bags, such as those used for grocery shopping. What did he carry in them? Weapons?

He held the whip in a stronger hold and prepared himself to attack, when an impatient cry stopped him.

"Sherlock! Where the hell are you?!" shouted the other man entering the flat "What a smell! I told you to be careful! You let the pie burn anyway!!"

Sherlock left the bathroom and headed for the kitchen. Leaning over the oven, from which came a toxic cloud of black smoke, there was John. He had put the shopping bags on the table and was holding the blacks charred remains of what was to be their dinner.

"John?" He asked astonished "What the ...?"

"I asked you to look after the pie on my way to the grocery store" John scolded him "I can be ok with you not helping with housework, but at least this it was an easy task you could have done! You just had to turn off the oven! I even put the timer!"

Coughing and cursing John took away what remained of the pie and left it on the windowsill to let it cool down. In that moment Sherlock knew. On the coffee table in front of the sofa there was no ashtray overloaded with butts. The smoke came from the oven, not the cigarettes. There had been no murders of homeless people. Amazing how the mind can work, what strange and twisted images it can create.

"I think I fell asleep," he said, turning to hide the blush that was reddening cheeks.

He was blushing with embarrassment but especially with joy. John, his John, his little hedgehog, was not a murderer. He could never be. It had only been a nightmare.


	2. Mycroft Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will Mycroft's nightmare be?

Mycroft Holmes, was sitting in his comfortable chair at the Diogenes Club, absently flipping through the pages of the morning paper. It was a boring morning. Not even an alarmed call from some minister or other. It was all under control, so he could finally enjoy a little 'rest’.

He needed it, really. He did not really think about his physical rest. With his line of work he had never an occasion to really get tired from that point of view.

The rest he needed was mental. Too many problems, too many dynamics to be monitored, too many people to follow closely. Especially one. His brother. That irresponsible brat that was his brother was the one who, more than anyone, was able to make him anxious.

He was posing as great detective but he knew that he actually needed to be followed very closely.

One of the waiters caught his eye, discreetly touched his forearm and handed him a business card. He recognized it immediately. It was Dr. Smith’s. What could he want from him after all these years? He became alarmed. There was only one reason why the doctor could want to contact him.

He jumped up from his chair and walked to the guest room, the only place in the club where he was allowed to speak.

As he climbed the stairs he thought of the past. How many times had he lived the anguish? How many times had he hoped it would be the last? How many times had finally exhaled when everything had ended well?

In that moment, though, the anxiety reigned. Within him he knew that his concerns would be melted like snow in the sun. That happened afterwards though. There was still that percentage of doubt. Doubt that he would never rid himself of. Could he relax afterwards? How would everything solve itself now? How would he find him?

Dr. Susan Smith awaited him standing at the window. She looked out playing with her hands in a nervous gesture, perhaps looking for the best way to tell him the truth. Which truth? It was what scared him the most.

The woman had not noticed his presence yet, so he took the opportunity to try and deduce her from her behaviour and appearance before she could speak.

Her hair was slightly dishevelled, tied up in a bun apparently made in a hurry. The clothes were, obviously, those of the day before. She had no makeup on, everything about her showed that she left the house in a hurry, without curing the details, as she used to. Probably it was also her day off. Yet something, or someone, had led her to give up her intentions of personal recreation to go personally to see him. A call in the middle of the night, the dark circles under her eyes telling that she had not slept for more than four hours.

"Good morning, Dr. Smith" he greeted at the end.

The woman spun around, caught by surprise. She had not heard him come in.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," she said with a sigh, trying to relieve a little of the tension growing inside her.

"What happened?" The man asked, "Tell me without right now"

"What we feared, Mr. Holmes," she said sadly, lowering her head, as if suddenly the pattern on the carpet had become interesting.

"What do you mean?" Mycroft insisted, slightly bending his head sideways "There are many things we expected from him, do not let me be anxious"

The woman hesitated a moment, then raised her head and looked at his interlocutor straight in the eye.

"Overdose" she finally said, sighing as if she had taken a weight off her chest with those words "We have done everything possible to save him, but he died a few hours ago"

A heart attack. He took two steps backward, stunned by the news.

"Where did you find him?" Mycroft asked, biting his lip, trying to fight back the pain.

"In the East End" Lane said avoiding his inquisitorial look.

Mycroft, however, did not care much about the place where it was that said event occurred. He cares about him. Only Him. Him that he couldn’t protect. Him, with whom he could no longer fight. Him, to whom he would no longer smile secretly, watching him move away, like a father watching his son go play. Him, whom he would not see again. For real, this time.

"Where?" He asked flatly.

She wrapped her arms around herself, a futile attempt to resist everything, to avoid the emotional tsunami that hitthem in such a devastating and unexpected way. Unexpected? Maybe not. He knew. He knew it would end like this. Yet he had monitored him so well! Where did he go wrong? Where?

He had done his best to control him, he had monitored his bank account. It was almost certain that he did not own any cash which he wasn’t aware of, not enough for an overdose! What’s more, there was John. John! He too would have prevented all this! He should have stopped it! Stop his self-destruction!

"Now he is in Bart's. In the morgue" she said heading for the door, wishing to escape as soon as possible from that room "Excuse me but now I must go. You will have to go there this evening to identify the body"

Mycroft nodded as she literally run out of the room.

Finally alone, Mycroft dropped into his chair. He closed his eyes, trying to make sense of what he had just heard.

Eventually you did it, you bastard! You wanted to play with fire and now you've done it and you were burnt alive. We both knew it would end like this one day.

_Fifteen years earlier_

The phone had been ringing for a long time but he had yet to answer it, he was so taken by the studio of that Treaty that had kept him up all night. In the end, to prevent the repetitive ringing from making him crazy, he picked up the phone. A premonition made her way inside him with the speed and intensity of an electric discharge.

"Hello?" he said, fearing the answer.

"Mr. Holmes? Mycroft Holmes? "Asked the voice on the other side of the phone. A woman's voice. A familiar voice.

"Yes, it’s me,"  he simply answered "Dr. Smith, is that you?"

"It's me, Mycroft," she said with a sigh, seeking comfort in the intimacy that now bound them "Can you come to the clinic? It's urgent"

"It’s about my brother, right?" He asked, already knowing the answer.

"Unfortunately" she said sadly. Even if he couldn’t see her, he could guess how many years had she aged. Despite not having blood ties to him or his family, she suffered every time she had to give bad news. She suffered for his patients and suffered for the relatives. She was a very emotional woman. Too emotional. Sometimes Mycroft had wondered why had she chosen that profession.

They had met two years earlier, when he convinced a recalcitrant Sherlock to be hospitalized in her clinic to detox from cocaine. There had been immediate understanding between the two of them. Only Mycroft in his  family, knew of his brother's problem and so, he had taken charge of it. Susan had understood the young man’s situation immediately and had always tried to help him as best she could.

The room smelled of disinfectant and chicken broth. Sherlock was lying on the bed in his room and seemed to be staring at the ceiling. Did he see him? Hard to say.

"Sherlock ..." began Mycroft, "Why?"

The boy seemed to awaken from his very deep thoughts. He blinked a few times and turned his face towards his brother.

"Why what?" He asked as if it wasn’t his problem.

"Why did you do that, Sherlock? Why are you trying to destroy yourself? "

"I’m not destroying myself!" he said letting go of a long sigh, "I'm not that stupid. I’m using a seven percent solution. Absolutely non-lethal or harmful "

"It will if you keep taking hits so often, Sherlock!"

The boy, not without some difficulty, sat up.

"None of your business"  he attacked him, raising his voice and frowning with a threatening expression "Therefore go! You surely have better things to do than caring for an addict like me, right? "

"Sherlock ... please. You know that I ... "

"Go away, Mycroft. I'm fine. I will be fine. I do not need your pity. I do not need anyone's pity "

Mycroft turned and took a few steps to reach the door. Sherlock, sensing that his brother had given up asking him unnecessary questions, relaxed. He dropped back on the pillows, letting go of a long sigh.

It was then that he saw it. That expression. That expression of infinite and inconsolable sadness. One he had learned to see on his brother's face when something had struck him negatively. Like when his classmates in elementary school called him 'Freak' and wouldn’t let him play with them. Like when the teachers ridiculed him in front of the class, too concerned about maintaining their aura of respectability instead of devoting themselves to nurturing such a brilliant young mind. Like when he was lonely. Terribly alone. Solitude filled him, unmovable. So he tried with drugs. A way as any to fill the hole he could feel in the centre of his chest, and that seemed to take it all away, like a black hole, leaving nothing around itself. Even Sherlock wanted to disappear, to be sucked in by that mysterious force, by that vortex from which it was impossible to escape. Was it really so impossible?

If there was a way, Mycroft would have found it. Even if Sherlock didn’t want that, and he knew that he didn’t, he would help him. He would drag him away from the abyss, from that infernal abyss that he was dangerously facing. He would take him away from there. From grief and loneliness.

Over the years, things had not improved. He was released and then returned to the clinic and now he and Dr. Smith knew each other very well. It was enough to be presented with her business card to let him know that Sherlock had got in trouble again; and each time it was getting worse, as if the monster chasing him grew up day by day and he needed more powerful weapons to be able to, if not defeat, at least hold it off.

Finally then, John had arrived. Had he really believed that the doctor could cure his brother's heart. That heart that Sherlock persisted in repeating not to own. That heart that after many, too much suffering, had decided to go on strike. He would not allow its owner to make him suffer so. Not anymore. Too many times it had been broken. Too many times it had made him bleed. That’s enough. He would have to get by without him.

So Sherlock had begun to live without his heart. He didn’t want to suffer more. The disparaging looks of people, how they came to him, that nickname - Freak - that they gave him too often. They were all things that couldn’t harm him anymore. His heart had stopped working.

Mycroft did not know what was the danger that John could be for Sherlock. With its simplicity, with the way in which he accepted Sherlock for himself, with his infinite patience, he had opened a gap in his heart’s armor. A dangerous gap. Together with the doctor’s affection even the spears of others could reach it now. But the spears this time, would find him helpless and would hit him harder than ever. Annihilating him forever.

Finally it had happened. What he had feared the most had happened.

He had to suppress his tears. This was not the time to indulge in stupid sentimentality. Now he just had to do the paperwork. He had to go to the morgue, recognize his brother's corpse, sign the papers and contact the funeral home. He was going to be the one to organize the funeral.

The hardest part would come later. How to tell their parents? How to tell them what he had kept hidden for more than fifteen years? Would he be able to hold his mother’s destroyed gaze? How would he answer to his father's cries? How could he explain to them that Sherlock, their beloved son, had chosen the path of self-destruction?

Then of course, there were friends to be notified. Not many. Someone at Scotland Yard. That inspector Lestrade whom Sherlock spoke of so often. Molly had to be already aware. Mrs. Hudson. Then John. Oh God, how will he suffer! He would accuse him, blame him for everything. Useless fatigue. Mycroft could already feel it, like a thick and oppressive cape, forcing him to walk with his head bowed to his duties.

He squeezed harder the arms of his chair, as if trying to gather the strength to get up, to try to move forward. He had to do it, at least for him, to salute him decently.

The car left him outside the building and disappeared around the corner. Mycroft also wanted to go with it. He wanted to be anywhere but there. He shrugged, looked intently at an imaginary point in front of him and went inside. His eyes were hard, icey. His hands, however, betrayed him. Their trembling revealed his innermost feelings. No one would have noticed. Only Sherlock. Unfortunately he was not there to let them out. He couldn’t see anything in this world. Never again.

He walked the corridors that would take him to the morgue in a rush until he was almost running. He looked like he was walking normally, like a common gentleman, but in reality, his steps were slightly accelerated. From behind the windows of the room he saw Molly. She looked quiet. The trauma must have been strong for her. Maybe it was so devastating that it had completely shocked her.

"Hello Mr. Holmes," she greeted him warmly when he entered "Dr. Smith told me you have to recognize a corpse"

"It is so," he replied stiffly, trying to mask the tension that was soon going to break free.

He was about to ask her to leave him alone, when a nurse came in.

"Dr. Hooper" she called "You are wanted on the phone"

"I’m coming" Molly answered softly, "I’ll be right back, Mr. Holmes," she said before leaving the room.

Mycroft approached cautiously the body hidden by the sheet. It was the moment he dreaded. He would see his brother again, no longer under the clinic’s bedsheet. There would be no turning back from here. He had gone past the non-return line. He had to tug it off, in one moment. He did not want to find out a little at a time. He wanted the unvarnished truth and all in one moment. He grabbed the edge of the fabric beneath which lay Sherlock, mentally counted to three and pulled hard.

What he saw left him speechless. Literally breathless. Under him, with skin in imminent necrosis, laid a man. His hair black and cut short. Over the prominent nose there were visible signs of glasses. With a trembling hand he opened one eye. The irises were blue, but not that wonderful blue - green that characterized Sherlock’s eyes.

Dr. Smith had not seen Sherlock for almost seven years. She must have mistaken him for someone else. He was about to let go, when Molly returned.

"I got a call from the clinic where Dr. Smith worked," she said "They were able to reconstruct the documents he had on him. His name was Eddy Thompson. The family will be here soon. I honestly do not know why she called you for the recognition. I regret you had to make the trip for nothing"

"That's all right, Molly," he said trying to control the tremors "That's all right. Anyway, is Sherlock here today? "

"Yup. He’s up in the laboratory. He has been working on those samples for hours now. You could try to tell him to have a break... maybe he’ll listen to you "

"It would be nice if he would listen to me, at least once" the man replied, chuckling to himself as he left the room, trying not to laugh too hysterically.

Sherlock was still bent over the microscope. Heavy dark circles marked his face and now he, too, even with all his will, had arrived at the limit of his forces. He looked up away from the lens and rubbed his tired eyes, when he saw Mycroft.

"What do you want?" He asked holding back a yawn.

The man did not answer. He approached his brother with slow, measured steps. He seemed uncertain about what to do, almost afraid.

"Mycroft, please!" he addressed him rubbing his temples "I have no time for your games. I have to go now. If you have something to tell me, do it quickly and get out. If you're just here to bother, you can leave... "

He did not have time to finish the sentence before Mycroft was on him. He covered the last few metres that separated them with a few quick steps and hugged him.

"What are you doing? Mycroft, leave me!" said Sherlock trying to free himself from his brother's grip. The more he wriggled, though, the more Mycroft squeezed "Would you tell me what the hell's the matter?"

Suddenly all the tension accumulated that afternoon swept over him like a river in a flood. That river, filtering through all the thoughts formulated in those few hours of pure and devastating anguish, poured from his eyes.

Big, warm, beneficial tears streaked across his face and shook his body. Only Sherlock, only his little brother, could lead him to that state.

Sherlock let him cry, shocked by such an unexpected reaction from his brother. He did not know what had happened, but it had to be serious. He also indulged in his embrace and smiled back. He felt protected, all the coldness with which the two men usually treated each other seemed to have dissolved under the influence of those balsamic tears.

After a few long minutes, Mycroft left him. With his hands he kept holding Sherlock firmly. He still had red eyes from crying, but they had taken that aspect between the threatening and the paternal that Sherlock knew so well.

"Please, be safe" he said shaking lightly, before turning around. He started to walk towards the door, with a light heart and the umbrella spinning merrily through his fingers "I'm keeping an eye on you," he said then, before disappearing behind the door, while Sherlock, puzzled, returned to observe the microscope.


	3. John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson falls asleep at the clinic... What's his nightmare going to be?

“Doctor! Doctor!”

A woman’s voice took me back to reality. That, and the strong pain I can feel in my shoulder. I’ve fallen asleep again leaning on my desk. Dammnit! Sherlock has played the violin thill late night, and when I finally fell asleep it was already dawn. I must have slept aproximately two or three hours maximum, but it seems even less. Furthermore, yesterday I had a double shift because Sarah was sick and I had to do her shift too.

I stretch and try to ignore the pain in my muscles. The position really was unconfortable.

“Yes?” I ask “Oh, Sarah, are you feeling better?” I ask the woman who just got in the room.

“Much better, thanks!” she answers “Did you fall asleep again? There’s a patient waiting for you”

“Let him in” I answer rubbing my eyes “Didn’t sleep much tonight. Sherlock played the violin all night. Didn’t let me sleep”

“Of course, of course” she says. It seems like she is commiserating me, but I could be wrong.

The day keeps going, thanks to the half a dozen strong coffees, I can stay awake till night. I know it’s not healthy, but I could do nothing else. I asked for a big thermos and I consumed it all in a couple of hours, drinking a bit every time I felt my eyelids begin to beg for mercy. I passed the next hours with a great headache, but at least I was awake.

Now I just want to go home and relax. But first, unfortunately, I’ll have to go shopping. Sherlock, even if he has no cases in this period, would have never deigned to go to a boring supermarket!

I’m heavy with shop bags and I’m really tired. I just want to lie on my soft and comfortable chair near the fireplace. First I’ll have to put everything I bought in their place, on the various shelves and the fridge, always if Sherlock didn’t fill it with his weird experiments, highly probable thing.

I’m walking, no, I’m trying to walk on the sidewalk to reach the subway stop (only Sherlock can take a taxi whenever he wants) when a car stops near me. Mycroft! The last thing he needed! The window opens and a woman invites me in.

“Hello doctor! Want a lift?” she asks winking at me.

“Ok” I answer with a sigh. How could I say no?

While I get closer, she opens the passenger door. I get in. Weird. Usually Mycroft makes me get in the back.

“Did you go shopping Doctor? What did you buy?”

She wants to make a conversation?

“Chicken breast, some salad, some mushrooms and some rice. Oh, and milk! Sherlock drinks litres of it and never buys any”

She laughs and shakes her head. I don’t get it. Where is she taking me? It doesn’t look like the usual place where Mycroft meets me. She turns on Upper Whimpole Street and stops at number two.

“Here we are, doctor” she says with a smile “I want to thank you for the help you gave me. I wouldn’t have known what to do without you. My son feels so much better thanks to the medicine you prescribed him”

I look at her, aghast. So she is my patient? I don’t remember her, but if she says so, it must be true! With all the people I see, it’s normal that I forget about someone, no?

I get down from the car and look around. Weird place to meet with Mycroft. Weird too that he made a patient give me a lift! Or maybe she could be his spy? Maybe that’s why I don’t remember her! Instinctively I put my hand in my pocket trying not to lose the bags, and find a key there. It’s not 221B Baker Street’s. Actually, I’m not in Baker Street at all. Probably that woman slipped it in while I was looking elsewhere.

If she left me here, there must be a reason! I walk to door number two and try the key. It fits! I turn it and the door opens. I don’t know why, but this place looks familiar.

I explore the rooms and I realize with wonder, that I recognize many things. There’s my laptop on the table, even the tea set Harry gave me for my birthday.

What did that mean? Did we move and Sherlock forgot to tell me? Or maybe I just forgot? I fell my headache getting worse every minute.

I put the shopping bags on the table, luckily devoid of flasks and experiments. Always weirder. I can’t see any trace of Sherlock. Not his dressing gown left on his chair. Not his violin, not even the cover. Even the skull is not there. I ask myself were was that madman.

I begin looking around in the bags and surprise myself when I realize I know perfectly well where everything I bought had to go. First, I open the fridge. I prepare myself to find eyes, thumbs or bones, but I find nothing. Two eggs, a bowl with some kind of sauce, a lone broccoli in the vegetable drawer.

I put everything in it’s place and lay on my chair. I don’t even have the force to make tea and, sincerely, now I don’t want to. Now I need to rest, maybe have a hot shower, but not now. I can’t even move a muscle now. I close my eyes and relax.

I wake up after a couple of hours. It’s dark outside. I look at the hour. It’s almost eight. I’m still tired, but hunger begins to make herself known. A shower. First a shower.

I walk tiredly to the bathroom and I get under the hot water. Ahhh! Exactly what I needed! The water pours over my body, cleansing, it seems it takes with her even the last vestiges of my headache. I’ll have to take an aspirin after dinner. Still in my robe I go to the kitchen. Sherlock is not back yet. Maybe he is away for some case. It happens for him to be away for days, but he could at least send an SMS!

I go to my room to get dressed and casually pass in front of the mirror. Moustache? Is that a moustache? I’ve never wore moustache! Why didn’t I realize earlier? I touch it. I pull it lightly. Ouch! They are real! It’s not one of Sherlock’s jokes that he may have put on my face while I slept. They are actually mine!

Right. Now everything is clear. I must have amnesia. Could it be Alzheimer? No, I’m still too young for that. I must have missed something. I dress and go back to the other room. I quickly cook an omelette. I’m so hungry I could eat an entire chicken!

Once calmed the hunger, I try to calm my mind too. I sit in my chair and grab my phone. I must call Sherlock. I need to know where he is. I try to find his number in the phone but I don’t find it. I need to know where he is. Weird, I don’t remember deleting it. Plan B. I look for Mycroft’s number. He would know where his brother is! He even know how many times he goes to the toilet in a day! Panic. I don’t even have his.

What’s happening? Dammnit! What’s happening?

I don’t want to, but I force myself to go to Scotland Yard. With a taxi, this time. Even if it’s so late, I find someone who greets me.

“Good evening, I’m looking for Inspector Lestrade” I ask beginning to remove my jacket, sure that I’ll be showed in his office quickly.

“Who?” asks the agent, without masking his surprise.

“Inspector Lestrade!” I repeat. Beginning to get anxious.

 “Never heard of him” he answers shaking his head.

“But of course!” intervenes his colleague “It’s a character of those new detective novels so in vogue lately... ‘The adventures of Sherlock Holmes’! Didn’t you read them?”

“Nope” he shrugs.

“They deserve to be read” keeps going the other “I really suggest you read them. Anyway, you really are something” he tells me “I was almost falling for it. It’s a joke, ain’t it? Really funny. Sorry, but you have to leave now, we have things to do”

“What are you talking about?” I manage to ask.

“Listen” says the agent trying to appear calm “I’ve laughed at your joke, but it’s enough. We have to work. Go away before we fine you”

I get out of Scotland Yars like a sleepwalker. Really. I. Don’t. Understand. What’s. Happening.

‘The adventures of Sherlock Holmes’? Surely he was talking about my blog! But he really seemed to be be talking about something fictional, something invented. But Sherlock is real! He is! And Lestrade too! I’ll come back tomorrow. I’m sure that the agent was just taking the piss. Why should he though?

I’m sure that under all this mess there’s Mycroft. I call a taxi.

“Take me to the Diogenes Club, please”

“Where?” asks the man turning towards me.

“The Diogenes Club!” I repeat “In Pall Mall!”

“Sir, I know London like the back of my hand and I’m really sure that no Diogenes Club exists, moreover in Pall Mall”

I stare at him, mouth agape for a while. The thing is getting even more absurd.

“Take me to Bart’s then” I finally say, dejected.

He nods, turns towards the road and changes gear. Sarah has the night shift. I can go to her.

Everything I thought real is becoming a mere illusion. I have to check. I’ve seen Sarah this morning. She was real. She was! She was real when she brought me the thermos with coffee! That coffee was real!

I didn’t imagine it! Sherlock was real, last night, when he kept me awake with his damned violin! It was real! Now, though, he is gone. His violin is gone, his phone number is gone, his test tubes, his human remains, even his brother (and it takes a lot to make Mycroft disappear!)

I must look terrible because when I walk in the door of the clinic, Sarah looks worriedly at me. The room is deserted, so I can let myself go.

“What’s going on?” she asks coming closer.

“I’m going crazy Sarah” I say, throwing myself on the first available chair.

“I know” she says, putting her hand on my shoulder “Maybe you should take a break, stop writing for a while and keep only working as a doctor. No, better, stop working all together. Go on holiday, away from London!”

 “Writing helps me Sarah, helps my nerves. Even my terapist says so!”

“Not at your levels” she says, frowning “You even begun talking about Sherlock like he really existed! Maybe you don’t realize it, Arthur, but you are getting too much in the story. Even this morning, you said Sherlock kept you up playing the violin all night. He can’t do that, he doesn’t exist!”

“Arthur?” I ask, stopping her “Who’s Arthur?”

“Oh my God” she says covering her mouth with her hands “You don’t even know who you are?”

“I’m John Watson!” I say energically “I’ve no idea who’s this Arthur you are talking about! Look! Even my ID says so!”

I grab my wallet and take it out. There’s my picture. Ok. I read my name. My head is turning. I’m about to faint.

Arthur Conan Doyle.

Who’s that? Is that me? Me?!

“Arthur?” she calls, running towards me with a glasso f water with a bit of sugar “Drink this, it’ll make you feel better. You are so pale!”

“Thanks” I said, accepting the sugary water. I really need it. I’m losing my strenght. I’m about to let go.

“The thing must be worst than I thought” she says reaching for the phone.

She lifts the handset and composes a short number.

“Tom? I’m Sarah. Could you come down a second? ... It’s about Arthur. Yes, he identified with his character again and believes the stories he writes are true... Ok, I’ll wait for you”

I listen to the phonecall in horror. Did she just call some psychiatrist of the hospital? For me? Absurd! I’m not crazy! I’m not crazy! I’m not!!

“I’m not crazy!!” I shout “Why did you call the psychiatrist?! I’m not crazy! I’m John Watson!”

“Calm down, Arthur. You’ll see, everything will be ok”

“Ok? Nothing is ok here!” I shout. Now I really have lost it “Sherlock disappeared, even Mycroft disappeared! Even Lestrade is not here anymore! Then this morning a woman said she was my patient and took me home but not to Baker Street! What does this mean? Is this a joke? I sit? Was it Moriarty? Did he organize everiting? Answer me Sarah! I bet you are in this too! You wouldn’t keep calling me ‘Arthur’ if it wasn’t like this!”

“I call you by your name!” she said, patiently “Really, Arthur, you should try to calm down”

“I don’t want to calm down” I shout “I don’t want to calm down! Don’t call me Arthur! I’m John! John, get it? John Watson! John Watson! Where’s Sherlock? I want to see him! Where is he? Tell me! SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK! SHE…”

I feel someone grabbing my arm and a sharp pain on my shoulder. The last things I can feel are someone’s hands that lift me and transport me to a stretcher and Sarah’s voice thanking Tom for his help. Then nothing.

“Doctor! Doctor!”

A woman’s voice took me back to reality. That, and the strong pain I can feel in my shoulder. I’ve fallen asleep again leaning on my desk. But I clearly remember being drugged and put on a stretcher in the clinic…

“Yes?” I ask, stretching “Oh, hello Sarah”

I panic a bit. Look for my wallet. My ID. My picture. Everything is fine.

John Hamish Watson.

I take a deep breath.

“Everything all right John?” asks her “You must have fallen asleep. There’s a patient waiting for you”

“Sorry” I say, putting everything away “Tonight Sherlock kept me up almost until dawn with his damned violin”

She heartily laughs.

“I’ll prepare you a strong coffee then” she says leaving “Can I let the patient pass?”

“What? Oh, yes, of course”

In less than ten minutes I visit three patients (common colds) and I can drink my coffee. I grab my phone and go through the numbers. I find ‘Sherlock’ and call him.

“The phone sounds free, but it takes him some minutes before answering. Typical.

“What do you want John?” his deep voice reassures me.

“Nothing” I say “How are you?”

“Are you going crazy?” he asks.

Actually he is right. Why should I call him only to know how he is? Furthermore, this morning I heavily insulted him for his nightly concert. At leat he is real. Is alive and well. Sometimes it happens I actually wonder if a person like him actually exists. I wouldn’t want him to change for nothing in the world.

“No” I answer, laughing “Luckily I’m not”


	4. Molly Hooper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly's best dreams is her worst nightmare

She didn’t really know how it begun. It all happened so fast and unannounced that it had taken her totally by surprise.

So now, when she looked at her left hand, she kept asking herself if that diamond ring was actually Sherlock Holmes’ present.

It happened during a long night at the morgue. She had a night shift and he was bored, evidently, and he couldn’t sleep in his flat in Baker Street. He had arrived while she was doing an autopsy and had begun circling her like usual, trying to stroke her ego like a cat that wants a favour. She had greeted him with the same resignation you’d use on a cat who comes to scratch at your door in the middle of the night looking for a shelter from the rain. He had said something about her new haircut – she had been to the hairstylist that morning – and then he had begun working on an experiment he had been working on for some days.

After about half an hour, she had joined him in the lab and had begun analyzing the samples just extracted from the corpse. He had lifted the gaze from the microscope and had observed her for a long time.

Weird.

“You really are pretty like this” he had said again even if usually he thought it was boring to repeat the same concepts, furthermore when they were compliments.

Too weird.

“Thanks Sherlock, you already said so” she had replied, blushing like a teenager.

“I repeat it because it’s true Molly” he answered turning his face so she couldn’t see it. Wait a moment, he was hiding his face?

Even weirder.

“Is there something wrong Sherlock?” she asked, worried he had lost his mind.

“No, everything is fine. It’s always better when you are with me Molly”

If possible, she blushed even more.

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know…” she answered, slightly embarassed “You seem different…”

“Different?” he asked with a surprisingly innocent voice. He went to look at himself, using the window as a mirror “It doesn’t look like it!”

“I was talking about your behaviour… you are so sweet… you never compliment me…”

“Maybe I finally discovered how beautiful and extraordinary you are Molly” he answered, trying not to look at her face.

He went towards his jacket and, after a moment of excitation, he extracted a little blue packet. He held it for a second before he decide to come back. His face was flushed red in embarrassment and seemed to be unable to understand where to start explaining. Molly, in the meanwhile, had blushed too. Her heartbeat begun accelerating with emotion. Sherlock had bought her a present? Impossible, whispered a voice in her head. Why would he buy her something? But… we are the only ones here… why should he retrieve it if it was for someone else? And then, whose could it be? The Woman’s? Irene Adler’s? Then why show it to me? Does he want to make me suffer even more?

Molly’s inner dialogue was brusquely interrupted by Sherlock.

“Molly ...”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Listen, I know that maybe this is not the best place to tell you this, but I can’t wait anymore. I know that maybe a park would give it a different effect, but this is the place I met you, so I thought it was the perfect place for this”

“For what?” asked Molly slightly hesitating.

Sherlock, even more hesitant , unwrapped the packet and held a little blue box, decorated with tiny plated arabesques. His usually pale face became even redder with the emotion.

“Molly, would you marry me?” he asked giving her the box.

Molly grabbed it with trembling hands and could hardly open it with all the emotions running through her body. Inside, there was a beautiful diamond ring. It wasn’t too big or too little. It was just perfect.

“Sherlock… i sit for me? She asked, tears in her eyes, giving him her hand.

“Of course it is” he answered taking the ring from the box and putting it delicately on her finger “So... would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?” he asked again, bowing to her like a prince of the past.

Molly’s throat was closed by emotion and just nodded, happier than ever.

She lived the rest of the night like in trance. Everything seemed like a dream, a beautiful, extraordinary dream from which she wished never to wake up from.

In the following days it all went even better. Sherlock was always caring for her. The following morning he entered the lab with two steaming cups of hot coffee.

“American, with a bit of cream and a spoonful of honey, the way you take it” he had said entering and placing the coffee next to the microscope.

“Th-Thanks” she had answered.

“Is there something wrong?” he had asked, looking at her with a worried expression.

 “No, nothing, just…”

“Did you change your mind?” he had asked visibly worried “Don’t you want to marry me?”

She had jumped at the question, asked with an unsure and afraid tone of voice. She had then looked at her hand, where the diamond ring still shined.

“No, Sherlock” she had answered, smiling “Don’t worry about it”

In the following days it all went the same way. He kept bringing her coffee every morning and a cup of tea every afternoon. At lunch he kept her company and observed her eat even if he didn’t. He just sat himself in front of her and observed her until she was finished. Molly didn’t know if she should feel happy or worried by this. Everything seemed so absurd!

 And so she had begun to ask herself if all of that was a dream or if Sherlock had actually asked her to marry him. She looked at the diamond like every morning. She looked at it for some minutes, hoping it didn’t disappear, that it was real. And the diamond kept being there. She did it that day too, like Sherlock didn’t, entering the lab with the usual morning coffee.

“Good morning Love!” he said with a smile that could have anyone meltong “I brought your coffee and a cream filled croissant!”

“Thank you Sherlock” she answered grabbing the mug he was offering and the little white paper bag with the croissant inside “You shouldn’t have”

“This is nothing for my beloved Princess!” he answered with a little bow.

“Lestrade sent me some samples to analyze” she said, embarrassed, trying to change the topic and showing him a test tube filled with a dark substance.

 “Now they don’t matter” answered Sherlock lifting the test tube from her hand and left it on the table “Now what’s important is you”

“But, Sherlock, we have to work!”

“I don’t care”

“Come on Sherlock! Don’t be a crybaby!” she said laughing “Now we really have to work!”

Sherlock, even if he looked contrite, had nodded and, grabbing the test tube that Molly had given him, had begun to work with his favourite microscope. Even if she had begun working, Molly found him spying her and looking away when caught and blushing. He looked like a teenager at his first crush, even if he already asked her to marry him.

They were things only Sherlock Holmes could do. A person like him was not apt at “normal” things. He had to surprise you. With his best and his worst he always knew how to surprise his interloper and, even if she had known him a long time, Molly always stared agape at him every time. Looking at his weird and unpredictable acts, his beauty, so perfect it seemed to come from another world, his laughter, just recently discovered and already loved, the ring he had given her, the wedding proposal she had waited so long for she had renounced to it and had instead come in such a sudden and unpredictable way.

Molly was almost telling him to keep working and stop getting distracted when Anderson arrived.

“Good morning Dr Hooper” he told her “Hello Freak” said then to Sherlock. He didn’t answer, just grunted a yes in answer, before going back to his sample.

“Hey, I came for you Freak!” Said Anderson out loud “I have more samples for you. Try to analyze them as fast as possible, or I’ll go to Inspector Lestrade to tell you off”

“Yes, Anderson” he answered grabbing what the other had thrown at him from mid air “I’ll try to be as fast as I can”

“Yes, Sir” he corrected him “When you talk to me, you have to refer to me as “Sir”, understood?”

“Yes, Sir” he answered, nodding “Understood sir”

 “Very well” Anderson continued crossing his arms behind his back “What was I saying? Oh, yes! The analysis ... I want the results for Tomorrow morning”

Sherlock looked at the pack and even Molly looked at it with wide eyes.

“But …” tried to protest Sherlock “There are too many test tubes! I’ll have to work all night!”

“Then I suppose you should begin as soon as you can, right?” said Anderson with a false singsonging voice.

“But ...” tried Sherlock again “This is supposed to be your work, isn’t it? I should only collaborate!”

“We close an eye on your cocaine consumption, right? We close an eye when you grab something from a crime scene without permission, right? We close an eye when you get on a crime scene unauthorized, right?”

“Yes, you are right ...”

“You are right, Sir!” he corrected again “Remember to call me Sir!”

“No, you are right … Sir”

“Very well” he finally said “Now to work! Chop chop!”

Sherlock didn’t answer but quickly opened the pack full of test tubes that Anderson had given him.

“Goodbye Dr Hooper” he added before leaving “No idea how you accepted to marry such a looser like him! Bah!” and closed the door behind him.

When even the sound of his footfalls wasn’t audible anymore, Sherlock let himself go over the microscope trying to suppress cries of frustration.

“Why did you let him treat you like this?” she asked “You never did!”

“I’m too easy to blackmail” he answered “You heard, didn’t you? The cocaine, the stolen evidence... and if I want to keep examining crime scenes I have to keep doing what he says or he puts me in prison!”

“Don’t say that!”

“Anyway, afterall, he is right!”

“About what?” she asked without believing what she was hearing.

 “He is right, I don’t know how a woman so beautiful and perfect as you are could accept to marry a loser like me…” he answered while the first tears begun wetting his face.

“Don’t say that Sherlock, please...” she said, bothered “I love you, you know I love you, don’t you? I am the one honoured by your marriage proposal... so, stop saying stuff like that!”

Sherlock nodded but couldn’t stop crying.

“Sorry” he finally said when the sobs ebbed “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have...”

“Everything is ok Sherlock, everything is ok” she assured him, hugging him.

He hugged her back like a child in need of his mother’s care, of a loving person who cared for who he was, without condition. Molly Hooper was that person.

Was she really?

“Go wash your face” she said, like she would have done with a child “I’ll make tea”

Sherlock nodded and got up to wash his puffy and red eyes.

Molly tiredly reached the room where the kettle for the tea was and thought about what had happened.

To see and feel Sherlock so disarmed and vulnerable had tired her. Was she really the right girl for him? Was he the right man for her? Anderson’s question begun to slowly get into her head. Was he right? Had Sherlock become a looser? He was sweeter, more careful, less married to his work, but also without a backbone. He couldn’t even face that fool that was Anderson. She looked at the ring. The diamond shone under the light of the lamp. She had to tell him.

She had to tell him she wouldn’t marry him, that she would give her heart to someone better than him. It would hurt him, but it would be better to do it as quickly as possible, before he got too close to her, even if he already seemed to have done so.

She lit the kettle and sat there, waiting for the water to boil. Usually she would leave it there, but today she didn’t want to go back to the lab, where, in the meantime, Sherlock had come back. His eyes were no longer as red as before, but it was clear he had been crying and an intense interior suffering deformed his face, usually so perfect.

Sometimes he looked in her direction, trying to intercept her gaze, but she always looked away, unable to sustain that pain, unable to tell him she didn’t love him anymore. In the end, finally, she closed her eyes. She had worked a lot lately so, as soon as she leaned her head on her open palm, sleep came quickly to snatch her away.

The kettle whistling woke her. By the side there already were their cups with a teabag in, ready to be filled with hot water.

She unplugged the kettle and lifted it to pour the liquid in the cups. In that moment she saw it. Or better, she didn’t.

The ring was gone.

Someone stole it! She looked at Sherlock. He sat, focused, in his place. His eyes were clear and limpid, icy, like always. Even from that distance she could feel the coldness they emanated.

It was impossible! Was he angry? Had he begun pouting like a baby and stolen the ring in revenge?

Impossible. She didn’t have such a deep sleep, even if Sherlock had a touch as soft as a professional thief. She shouldn’t have been asleep for long. Maybe five or six minutes, the time for the kettle to boil, but... in his eyes she couldn’t see any trace of tears. They were clean and observing the sample under the microscope’s lens with the usual concentration.

She grabbed the cups and reached him. In that moment, he had grabbed the mobile to make a call.

“Were are my samples, Anderson?” he asked in the phone “If it was for you, all those evidence would go to waste! Let me talk to Lestrade, I get an headache when I talk to you. Lestrade? When will I have the evidence from the last crime scene? I wrote an accurate list but they are not here yet! ... If you confide in him you really must be getting tired! ... I don’t care! Tell him I want then in an hour at the most!”

He brusquely closed the call without even saying goodbye.

“Oh, Molly, thanks, the tea”

“You are welcome” she answered, disoriented.

“Did you see my ring?” she tried asking, regretting her question immediately.

“Ring?” asked Sherlock, turning to look at her for a second before going back to his microscope “You had no ring”

She looked at him for a bit, confused. She had no ring? But... the diamond... the proposal... she thought about the last months and realized. It was all a dream.

A nightmare, to be precise. Her best dream was her worst nightmare. If Sherlock had proposed to her in that way, if he was sweeter, less arrogant and know it all, if he had begged for her love... he wouldn’t be Sherlock anymore, the man she had fallen in love with.

There was nothing to do with it. She hadn’t fallen in love with a sweet black kitten that asks for shelter in a cold, rainy night in winter.

She had fallen for a panther, always independent and proud, who walked around the jungle only when she wanted or faked letting herself go for some moments of intimacy. A though panther, proud and knowing her worth. This was the man Molly had fallen in love with.

An unattainable man but so fascinating. He attracted her and frightened her. She was afraid of him but she could do without him. She saw him like a panther jailed in a zoo and this made her sad. He had nothing in common with that world. With Anderson’s incompetency and ego, with Lestrade, so blind as not to see his real worth. They were the tourist that stopped in front of his cell to look at him and take pictures like he was in a circus.

The only person deign of his presence was John, the zoo guardian that, lovingly, offered him food and tried to make him feel loved as much as he could.

The only intruder was her. What was her role in that theatre?

“What’s wrong Molly?” asked him, taking her back to reality.

“Nothing, nothing” she answered shaking her head “Is the tea ok?” asked blushing slightly.

“Yes” he answered, taking a sip and putting the cup back down “Thanks” he finally added, gifting her with a slight smile.

She turned around, hiding the emotion and the smile that lighted her face.

She had no place in the show but she had the great privilege of observing the great panther in her natural habitat, see him smile, help him. She was there to help him, to sustain him. Nothing more, nothing less, and if this allowed her to admire him, even from afar, she would keep helping him until the end of her days.


End file.
